


The Uses of Sorrow

by talkofsummertime



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, But Yeah It's There, Depression, Established Relationship, Everyone Needs Therapy, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Miscommunication, POV Multiple, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, gradual recovery for everyone, that gets solved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29694894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkofsummertime/pseuds/talkofsummertime
Summary: After all is said and done, what does one do if there is no normal to go back left? What remains after the aftermath, the epilogue?The Final Lair leaves Raoul a mourning brother and Christine a traumatized young woman. As for the disappearance of the Phantom of the Opera, he is finally living up to his name.An alternate version of the events where Christine and Raoul do not flee Paris.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera & The Persian, Raoul de Chagny & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. what is grief, if not love persevering?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In theory, I was planning to publish it a few months ago, but I have finally had the time to go back to the first few chapters and decide to continue.
> 
> This is mostly a mix of Leroux and ALW versions, but Philippe's death and the Final Lair are taken from the novel, hence the drowning related content instead of the Punjab Lasso. The title is taken from Mary Oliver's poem of the same title.
> 
> The first chapter is a bit short compared to the other for setting the tone. I hope you enjoy it.

_He is submerged in water up to his chest with a vast amount of water underneath and around him, and he knows it is not ocean that surrounds him._

_The_ _way sea feels on his body, on his skin, the way it would lift him up as his clothes dragged him down is not to be found. The sea would wisely whisper to him as the wind whipped his wet hair against his forehead with a playfulness. This water just chants “Down, down, down.” and it does not wash off his skin like the ocean. Cold and meticulous, it surrounds every inch of him with little change._

_His heart in a race to pump up more blood and mind in shock, his body takes over; like a wound up clock, unthinking, unreasoning, he starts to carefully tread the water, trying to keep his head as high as possible. Had he not spent his summers at Perros-Guirec and received his education at the Borda, he would let his fear take hold of him and flail his limbs aimlessly in his frenzy, but as there is oxygen in his lungs, his body knows what to do. As he swims around in order not to freeze or sink, he soon discovers the borders of his devilish prison, realizes the horizon is not as far as he thought, for the simple reason there is no such thing._

_He is trapped._

_And each time he makes a round in the system that kept him alive so far, a little less of him is above water. He can taste the water as he bobs up and down now, the water so unlike the ocean._

_He is a sailor, and sailors are not stranger to the sea, waves, and storms. Here, in this wicked place, all he has is still water that glints off cruelly at every angle with no horizon or land to be seen._

_He is a sailor. His training could fail, his ship sink, his crew starve, **these** , all the men enrolled in the Naval Academy accepted, some out of need, and some like Raoul, with gallant readiness and childish notions of heroism. But this death is not fit for a sailor; drowning in a puddle of water enough to fill the cube of a chamber. It is God’s will and he has always tried to respect that, by Blessed Mother, he did, but now as a dying man, he feels he can yearn for a death more befitting. _

_At last, almost entirely submerged with little room to breathe, his hopes of resurfacing are growing thin and the time he spends underwater longer. He feels tired and his body urges him to act, splash, flail, run, do something, anything to stay alive, to get him out of this situation but there is no mastery that can save him now. The water was still chanting to the same hungry rhythm, this time "Succumb, succumb, succumb.”_

_He stops breathing, and a man like him knows from now on, it is a futile pursuit. He knows how long it will take for his lungs to give out and inhale. And despite the pain and adrenaline he is experiencing, he is tired. His legs aches from the cold and he is so so tired from trying to stay afloat. His arms uncontrollably reach, no, cling to his chest as if he can take his lungs out to end it before Lord granted his mercy on him. Suddenly the impact of something colliding with his torso throws him off balance and puts an end to his new settling calm. His lungs hurt more than before, thousand tiny needles attacking all at once, but he finds the power to look for what hit him. And soon, he sees it was not an it but a **he** that disrupted his last moments’ peace. _

_And his heart drops. It is not a companion to the ache in his lungs, he felt this one before. It is a man he knows very well, not the Persian, nor the monster, but a sturdy torso to cry on, a hand to squeeze him on the shoulder, a man who, despite his occasional severity, has always been there for him. Then he knows, way before the lunge he makes for the coattails of the man and pulls him, he knows. That the skin he touched will be cold and clammy. The freezing water could serve as a foil to the color long left the older man’s face, and the dampness that penetrated into the other’s every cell and oozed forth back mask the skin that would be regardless clammy. But he knows._

_And the younger brother of Comte Philippe Georges-Marie de Chagny, out of his limit and wit, lets out a scream that dies down before it is heard by a single soul._

_________

Raoul de Chagny woke up drenched in sweat. His hand immediately reached for his shirt front to clutch at his chest and instead grabbed the white cotton fabric that stood in between. It happened many times by now, but the disorientation following the nightmares was a constant, and it was not the worst part.

Once he regained his faculties and realized it was a fiendish nightmare and he was not in the torture chamber of a diseased mind, drowning as he held his dead brother in his arms, he had a few seconds of respite from nightmares—both his brain conjured up and the real one his life had recently become.

Like all good things in his life of two score and one, it did not last long. Even the burning sensation of a million little bubbles in his lungs, repeated every night was better. Because what followed this momentary bliss next was a second wave of realization that his nightmare was rooted in memories, not fancy. A frankenstein of what he went through with some variation every single night, but all traceable to a past that seemed decades ago.

He preferred trembling hands clawing at his shirt and the panic that set him on edge to _this_. He preferred the nightmares to _this_. In them, he still had a chance, a last moment’s reversal of fortune, a penny dreadful’s twist of events… What, who, is now forever lost could be salvaged the last minute. ~~A fairytale~~ , no, he was too old for fairytales, a romance in the style his ancestors told could be made out of them: he would ensure the safety of the object of his affections and return to halls where he was welcomed with open arms.

He returned to the the halls, all right. As for open arms, those he could never hope to reach for again. So all in all, Raoul felt that his nightmares held that one possibility, that faint glimmer which was now extinguished from his life, and he preferred to endure the sensation of his lungs rupturing and cold piercing him deep into bone and cartilage. Better than sitting in the middle of his four-poster, amid crumpled sheets that smelled of fresh detergent, with soft eiderdown gathered around his legs, his eyes staring blankly into the night illuminated by the faint light of a single candle left lit.

What was even the point of waking up like this, adjusting to the safety of his life? Ever since he gained consciousness and it was sure he would make it out alive, Raoul felt like he was living a life he had no right to go on living, not with what had transpired, not when he could have died but did not, yet the man who needed to live did not.

Like the nights that preceded, after a few minutes’ pause, gripped by a new need for fresh air, he got up and took the plain brass candlestick on his nightstand. Scanning the room in the subdued and warm light it cast, he felt the exact opposite of relief. Crossing the room barefoot, he reached for the pitcher the location of which he memorized by now, night after night, and poured himself a glass of water.

This was his new normal and Raoul followed it like an obedient child. The thought that Philippe should have burst in through the room by now to ask him what was amiss crossed his mind as he clutched the glass tighter. This new musing was like his former ones in the viselike grip of jealousy or sadness, but this time he took his time with it. He was not the man he was back when Philippe could scold him for being sentimental, and this new self welcomed every unpleasant thought with a calm his brother would have approved.

Once his breathing returned to a relative normal, he walked to the large windows in a few big strides and opening the French door, stepped out into the balcony. Braving the midnight air, he stood in the middle of it, and in that moment, he looked as disoriented as he felt all day. After a few moments of stillness in this situation, he walked to the front of the balcony and leaned out over the balustrade. Not disturbed at the contact his wrists left bare by the nightshift made with the cold and smooth marble, he absentmindedly watched the steady glimmer of the gaslights in the empty courtyard. He let the chill that belonged only to the middle of the night work its way through the well-woven linen of his nightshift. This, too, he did not avoid.

Some nights Marie-Thérèse knocked on his door to help him fall back asleep, but it was a meaningless pursuit and when that happened, Raoul just pretended to fall asleep, so his sister could get a few more hours of sleep before the de Chagny household came to life. He would have to deal with that too; she needed to return home. Back to her husband and children, Raoul’s nephew and niece. Just like they were once Phillipe as well. Besides, this house was no longer her home. It was a house, a house that welcomed her with open arms for every single dinner party and Christmas celebration, but her new home waited her on Rue de Varenne, not here. The de Chagny mansion was only home for Philippe and Raoul.

On paper it had belonged to Philippe, but in every other sense, both Philippe and Raoul belonged to the house—the house whose sole owner was now Raoul de Chagny, the new Comte. He did not notice that his fingers was now clutching the alabaster balustrade with knuckles bone white, just like he did not notice how he started shaking ever so slightly, like a weeping willow swaying in summer breeze.

But Raoul was a child of the oceans and this illusion of a likeness to an earthbound creature soon dissipated. In its stead was a man with shoulders now shaking uncontrollably with each sob a bit louder. His sadness, his grief at last washed over him like a breaking wave.

If Raoul was a bit less emotional, less sensitive like Philippe had always thought it’d have done him good, it would not have mattered one jot. This grief had weeks to swell and surge, fanned by the fact he couldn’t bid his flesh and blood adieu for one last time at his wake, and worse, couldn't be there to perform his last duty and lay their paterfamilias to eternal rest in the ancestral crypt, next to their father–who departed way too early like his son, and the Comtesse—whom Raoul stole from every single member of his family as he let out his first cry.

This grief was further fed by Jeanne who could hardly look at his direction without a scathing remark or an accusatory stare and Marie-Thérèse who, while never blaming her younger brother, could hardly contain the sadness in her voice whenever Raoul let her down even further.

Most importantly, the young man's own guilt was enough to make a Leviathan out of his loss, one that would slowly consume him every day for not having perished the same night his brother breathed his last. So with chest heaving, sweaty hands shaking and pulling at his tousled locks, repeating "why" to no one and nothing whenever he could control his sobs, Raoul de Chagny sobbed his grief out for the first time in a month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have enjoyed it or just would like to share your opinion, comments and kudos are appreciated! :)


	2. in the end, we are not the roles we play.

A bright morning sun decided to grace Parisians with its presence earlier this year. The little but comfortable room of Christine Daaé was not exempt from this, where the sun streamed in gently and warmed everywhere it touched. Christine, however, was in no mood to enjoy the warmth or the change in weather. Too distracted by her own thoughts to notice anything, even the shadowy patterns the lace curtains cast on her hands, she was smoothing out any visible wrinkles on the black gown in front of her.

Earlier she had debated wearing her Sunday dress, her best for the time being, to visit the de Chagny household. _To visit Raoul._ But on second inspection, she did not think it was better than her mourning dress for her father, a somber yet delicate thing made of sturdy and dark bombazine with no frills save for the English crêpe circling its hem, and it possessed a dignity that was expressed through its simple cut, a luxury dating back to when Madame Valerius’ finances were better. A bit uncomfortable, for the time spent in Paris with inviting displays filled to the brim with delicious pastries combined with the passage of time changes one’s figure, but to the eye, perfectly presantable.

At first, the only problem was seeing it for the first time since her own deep mourning period ended and she was forced to let go of her mourner’s weeds in exchange of not standing out among other chorus girls after rehearsals. Besides, she always associated taking care of this dress with honoring the memory of her Papa, so it was quite logical to keep it safe and tucked away, _really_.

Once she had opened the sturdy chest where it lay neatly folded among other trinkets that reminded her of late Monsieur Daaé, her next problem was touching it. Afraid as if it would burn, she had forced herself to grab it and hold in front of her. Now that being done, she did not feel so bad with the thought of wearing it again as she smoothed it out.

After she wore the gown, she chose a simple, every-day coiffure for her hair and went downstairs to tell Madame Valerius she was going out. The poor woman, ever anxious to let go of her in her sight ever since that fateful night of the Faust performance, was at first upset that Christine was going _so far_! Christine took it on herself to carefully convince the old woman that it was no different than going to the bakery in the morning as she’d been doing these past few weeks, nor was it likely that any danger was lurking in the streets of Faubourg St. Germain. Sweet talk and the consideration Madame had for Christine’s sadness, which she attributed for some part not seeing the Vicomte and some to what she had gone through, helped convince her. The approving look she gave Christine when she entered the parlor she was sitting by the fire told Christine she had nothing to worry.

Soon, her mind amended her mistake once she was outside. She had nothing to worry as far as further upsetting Madame Valerius went.Her other concerns were not as easy to solve with sweet words over tea.

Ever since that night, or if she could admit for a long time, Christine did not know how she was feeling, but now more than ever, she was sure she could not afford to focus on herself. Every time she tried to think about herself, her experience, her situation, she felt a wave of something she could not yet identify wash over her, and found herself palms sweaty, heart beating fast, head dizzy. So she tried not to.

There were others she had to concern herself with. Besides, she was unharmed. The only injury she suffered was of her own doing by hitting her own head on the wall and it was already turning into a scar that was likely to disappear in a few months. She dismissed her nightmares as likewise likely to go away, so she diverted her attention to taking care of others. Picking up the pieces of the mess she caused.

The easiest part was taking care of a foster mother who was scared of losing a little girl—Christine would like to correct it to young woman but alas—because of her own inattention. Christine still remembered how she reacted like a true mother when she returned home wearing everything that happened to her on her face, her eyes and the very way she held herself. The woman might have not been the most attentive to Christine in the past months, or even believed Raoul when he warned her of that mysterious monsieur, but seeing her young ward like that was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and how much Christine wished it was possible for both of them to say all was behind them now!

But then came the police and despite she hated every second of it, the testimonies she gave at the police station were the second easiest. Sure, of the two detectives that questioned her, one’s look was pitying, and she despised pity. He also kept telling her she had nothing to fear, no one, going so far as to tell her not even the influential families like the de Chagnys were above the law. And that ignited a rare kind of anger in her, not only because one of the kindest souls she knew was being suspected of so foul a crime, suspicion was after all half of their job, but she was being relegated to the role of a helpless ingénue, the plaything of men, as if she had no role in all this, no speaking part of her own.

The second was more tolerable, for she saw his enmity in people eager to see her as a social climber before. This time cast in the role of a conspirator, a she-wolf who goaded her lover to getting rid of his noble brother, she just wanted to laugh at all these. Just start giggling like a _petit rat de l'Opéra_. Perhaps they would think her insane and let go. But perhaps they were more insane for thinking she could ever wish to put Raoul in a situation he’d have to choose between her and his brother let alone he would consciously plan to get rid of him.

Still, these she handled. And quite well for someone who was being questioned for the first time after three days of little to no sleep if she had to say. Maybe it was this lack of sleep and the temporary relief that spread after she learned Raoul would survive that made things easier for her because looking back she had no idea how she hadn’t lost her mind in those three days and the following week.

Trying not to think, to convince yourself everything was back to normal, whatever it might be, and telling yourself you have not been changed, broken, bent was more difficult. Knowing how you were being thought of and being unable to stop everyone you knew and did not know alike and tell them your version of the truth was worse. So she tried to go on as if nothing happened, just taking care of what lay in her power, one thing at a time. 

That day was not different and she tried to stave off unpleasant memories on her way to Raoul, but they still left her on edge. She was also worried about the state he could be in; how bad was he that he did not even respond to his letters. The worries she tried ~~and failed~~ not to think about because she was helpless against them resurfaced. How badly was Raoul doing that he did not even respond to his letters or tell her to visit him? How was he holding up? Was he hurting, physically and emotionally? Did he find support in his family? And was whatever he found enough to compensate for his brother's? 

And now as she stood in front of the intimidating mahogany door, Christine hesitated as her hand hung aloft one or two inch away from the heavily ornamented doorbell in the shape of an… _angel_? Mentally flinching at the thought and its associations, she withdrew her hand back. _Take a deep breath, it’s just a marble cherub_ , she reminded herself.

It would be pointless to come all this way, and go back to Madame Valerius with no word from Raoul. She had to admit Madame Valerius’ feelings did not make it to the top five reasons why she was making this visit, but if using the inconvenience it would bring to their talk over tea and biscuits would give her the courage she so desperately needed so be it.

Smoothing her dress over once more and deciding she was as presentable as she could hope, she pressed on the doorbell and heard it rang pleasantly. The door was answered by a tall young footman around her age with a grave but respectful expression. His pace did not allow her to hesitate once again and for that, she was grateful.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle. Monsieur le Comte is not accepting any visitors at the moment. Would you perhaps wish to leave a note or your card?”

For a moment, her mind assumed things still were as they ought to have been and she said, “I’m here to see Raoul, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

Reading her mistake in the incredulous and disapproving look in the footman’s mostly well-concealed expression, she bit the inside of her cheek, and added, “Please tell him. That I am here.”

She was confident Raoul she knew would still let her in, as much as she knew that the footman was aware she was Christine Daaé. But the Raoul she knew would also have replied to her letters, no matter how shortly, so she found herself doubting once again. A few moments later, the footman nodded, and ushered her inside to the parlor for her to wait.

Successfully controlling the urge to play with her hands, she sat down where she was shown and tried to maintain her calm by looking around. She has never been to Raoul’s house, she remarked with some irony. Whenever they met it was either at the opera or her own modest rooms with Madame Valerius where he came for tea and conversation. This room where she took to be the front parlor was both bright and dignified with its white walls embellished with gilded imagery of birds and flowers and accompanying brocaded couches and armchairs. Rather than clash, the light brown wood of the mantelpiece and other furniture complimented the whites and golds of the room, and one could clearly see whoever decorated this place chose to fill it with things they personally enjoyed, rather than follow the newest fashions. But with all the elegance it could offer, this room was still at odds with the somber mood that could be felt. Sitting there silently, perfectly poised and expectant felt wrong. She felt like an intruder to something private, something that was not meant for her, and she had a feeling it was true.

Startled from these thought with the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned to see Raoul’s eldest sister, a regal-looking woman dressed in a rich shade of black from head to toe that made her hair of golden blonde—same as Raoul—look ever brighter for it.

“Mademoiselle Daaé, my brother is not accepting any visitors at the moment, as Leblanc has already announced, or so I am informed. If you have anything you wish to be conveyed to him, please convey to him and Leblanc will deliver.”

Christine felt her face flush at this dismissal and the hatred veiled gauze thin within. But she had nothing to be ashamed of, so taking a deep breath, she got up from her seat and as calmly as possible replied, “Thank you, Madame la Comtesse, but I have already sent Raoul—your brother many letters, and I wouldn’t be here if he replied to any to tell me he is okay.”

While one could observe the similarities between the countenances of the de Chagny brothers easily with a keen eye—their similar face shape, smoother edged in Raoul, that together with his soft blue eyes and light hair gave him a kind and approachable look, in turn conveyed a reassuring gravity in Philippe with the help of his brown hair, heavy brows and demeanor. Yet the sibling he resembled the most was not Philippe, but the woman that stood in front of her indignantly right now. How differently they bore the same rather delicate features! The light blue eyes she was used to seeing as warm and expressive in Raoul were rather proud and inscrutable in Jeanne, and the fair hair that was carefully coiffed atop her narrow forehead, no single strand askew, made the distinct feeling that she resembled a perfect yet unchanging statue and not a living, breathing woman stronger.

This already haughty visage, now clearly uncomfortable with being in Christine’s presence, lost some of its control as she asked with irritation, “Mademoiselle, don’t you think he has reasons to not be okay and he simply has had no time to reassure your delicate sentiments because he has a family to deal with, not to mention, grieving.”

Her voice broke at the last word, revealing she was speaking what was on her mind, and not taunting Christine unnecessarily. Starting to feel like all was a mistake, she admitted Jeanne was right. She had felt it as she hesitated in front of the door, had feared it as she told Madame Valerius she would at last go see Raoul himself.

The fear she had been feeding with every letter she sent was now embodied in the rejection of this woman. Wasn’t she here because the fear had been too much anyway? The fear of not getting a response, the fear of being blamed for something she would not wish on anyone, let alone him. The fear that he was too broken to be near her. In any scenario but this twisted one they were living Raoul would have found strength in having Christine by her side; she knew her fiancé. And with a sick feeling in her stomach, she felt like she was about to learn if he was still the man she knew and loved.

She was aware she still didn’t give an answer, but how could she argue with that? All of Jeanne’s hurt and distaste of being near her was not about her, but what her sight brought to mind. Yet, a side of her rebelled at this; she wished no harm on her or anyone and what Madame did was to assign her yet another role in her own head.

After she replied, restating she would like to see Raoul, or at least have him told of her visit, she saw him. Jeanne didn’t notice with her back turned to the door, but the footman, trained to notice, and Christine, hopelessly seeking him and situated right across the door, saw him slip through the open door.

In a few seconds it took to take in the sight of him, Christine sighed in relief. He was still the same man. She did not know what she was expecting, but she was glad to see the Raoul she knew, much healthier than she saw last, just in the grips of relief. Even without looking him directly in the eye, she could see it in his now thinner frame, the unshaven face, and the disheveled hair as a couple loose curls fell on his forehead. As Christine stared and Jeanne turned to face him, he asked, “What’s going on?” The voice she last heard gravelly and brittle was now even and calm. It bothered Christine, the stillness, almost dull. And that surely did not match with anything Raoul was.

“Raoul—” 

“Mademoiselle Daaé came to require after whether you are fine, dear. I was just telling her you are in no fit state for visitors.”

It was difficult for Christine to remark in the spur of the moment but Raoul was visibly uncomfortable at Jeanne’s reply for some reason, and it snapped him out of his passivity for the moment.

His lips curling up in a pale imitation of a mirthless smile, he replied, “Since I am already down here, I think I’ll handle it from here, Jeanne. Thank you.” The woman was about to insist he shouldn’t waste his time with her, Christine was sure, but the look in Raoul’s eyes must have told Jeanne not to push forward.

Combing his hand through his already mussed hair, Raoul resumed, “Can you leave us alone? Albert you too, please,” addressing the footman. “If Mademoiselle Daaé is comfortable, that is,” he added hastily. Such a return to a formality that was never there in the first place hurt Christine, but she tried her best to take it in her stride. She was here now, she had missed him so much, and whatever the situation, she was going to deal with it.

She forced out, “No, not at all, Monsieur." and gave her all to not call him by his Christian name. Raoul hovered near the door until they left, impassive and calm, but once they left, he moved toward the armchair she was sitting and sat down on the one identical across her. He was returned to his calm, and Christine did not know what she was expecting but it was not that. A man who was shattered by the impact of his loss pained her to imagine but this calm was more unnerving than tears. Eerily familiar to how she felt after her father’s funeral. The pain and the gnawing emptiness always the same regardless of who did, when and how.

Dispelling this thought, she turned her attention to Raoul. At a closer look, Christine noted he still showed an attempt to dress well, perhaps out of respect, or habit, and the only thing missing was his jacket and tie as he sat across him in his waistcoat. Seeing he was not going to talk—so unlike Raoul to not grasp any chance to communicate—she realized it was her turn to push forward.

“So, Raoul,” the man raised his head from the hands he interlaced in front of him to look at her as she searched for the right words, and Christine continued, encouraged by his attention, “I really am sorry; my visit seems to have made you and your sister uncomfortable. I didn’t know you weren’t accepting visitors. Does your rib still hurt or lungs?”

She didn’t say _I didn’t think I would be a visitor_ nor did she add _I tried to keep my distance to respect your grief, to not remind you of it every time you looked at my face._

Because in the end it was the real reason Christine had to contend with only writing to Raoul after the hospital and the police station, letter after letter, first hoping they would bring the faintest of smiles to the young man’s lips when he was free from the clutches of the morphine, then wishing he would write back to reassure he is fine—in body, if not in spirit. She assumed Raoul wouldn’t want to see her. She did not know how the idea got into her head, was it her own conscience or the encounter with his sisters at the hospital? Her first visit to him after he was allowed to return home? It did not matter.

Besides, she saw everyone’s reaction to her presence in this, the various roles they assigned her from the police to Raoul’s sisters, and even Madame Valerius and Meg. It did not matter whether they saw her as the victim, the seductress or the collaborator, the name and face of Christine Daaé was forever associated with the tragic and sudden demise of Philippe de Chagny.

“Goodness, Christine! You shouldn’t have bothered to pay a visit like a passing acquaintance, a neighbor, a distant school friend.” Curt, straight to the point, but sincere without taunting or sarcasm. So, unlike him, save for the tendency to take offense at things that weren’t there.

“But I just wanted to respect your privacy, Raoul!”

A hollow laugh, the first crack in his stillness. “It didn’t occur to you I needed a friend, a companion by my side, Christine?”

And added with a second's lapse, “Or my fiancée.”

“That’s why I tried to get in touch with you! The letters I sent—”

But Raoul continued, and Christine wasn't sure he even heard her. “I know I don’t have my good name to offer you anymore. I know where I stand in most Parisian parlors and gentlemen’s clubs, but I wouldn’t expect you to distance yourself so quickly from me over gossips you know to be untrue, Christine.”

He was accusing. Accusing in every direction save the one she expected. He did not want to avoid her, not for the reasons she thought. She couldn’t even feel happy for it. How little did he think of her! No more than just another status obsessed diva-to-be. Yet, he also accused himself, of what people who don’t even know him assumed, and that was worse.

Frustrated with everything, everything that did not stop ever since, and not just the ongoing conversation, Christine wanted to shake him by the shoulders and knock some sense into him.

Instead, she balled her hands into fists and closed her eyes for a second. Unable to find any calm to gather in her, next, she simply gave up.

Opening her eyes again, she let out her hurt and anger, neve breaking contact with Raoul’s lighter blue gaze, “It is great to see in what esteem my fiancée holds me, Raoul! Because no matter what anyone thinks of you, I thought nothing of the sort that you imply. How do you dare to think I cared so little for you that I did not even want to see if you were fine after all we went through? I came to visit you the day after you were released, but your sisters turned me down, and after that I wanted to,” She needed to breathe to continue, it was impossible to convey her heart’s content in her mind’s pace, “I wanted to just give you some privacy, some time to mourn. I thought my incessant letters would show you, even if I’m not here, you are in both my waking thoughts and nightly prayers but I assume you couldn’t find it in you to believe I am a honest and loving woman.”

With that, she rose up from her seat. The softly colored room felt even more unsuitable to their conversation and her mood as she stood still for a moment to gather herself. The sense of entrapment she kept at bay for so long returned with full force in this doll house décor that made her feel like one.

Past thinking, and simply acting on her hurt, anger and sadness, she closed the gap between them, and grabbing his hand, she prised it open. “I am sorry to have disturbed you again, I just wish you had replied with a simple ‘Don’t write to me.’ Regardless of what you think of me, I offer my condolences and wish you a speedy recovery. Have a good day, Raoul.”

By the time Raoul shook off the shock and lowered his eyes to see what Christine tucked in his palm was the engagement ring he gave her, she had already stormed off the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of the chapter is a quote by alan cohen.
> 
> it's ridiculous how much i researched into 19th century mourning conventions and dress and did not even get into any detail, so i might as well just share here. 
> 
> while black was the norm, the fabric seems to have mattered quite a lot as well and dull fabrics with little to no sheen like the relatively affordable bombazine were preferred! as for the english crêpe or crape, it was used in deep mourning with various intensity and is a type of crimped cloth that is dull and stiff.
> 
> all that info dump aside, hope you enjoyed the chapter!


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